Margin of Error
by somethingsdont
Summary: JC. He made dictated calculations in his head. Ratios and percentages, but none of them seemed to offer the solace of an absolute answer.


**Title**: Margin of Error  
**Author**: Lucy (somethingsdont)  
**Pairing**: Jake/Calleigh  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Timeline**: Post-Going Under  
**Summary**: "He made dictated calculations in his head. Ratios and percentages, but none of them seemed to offer the solace of an absolute answer."  
**Notes**: Don't throw stones; I swear I haven't crossed over to the dark side! But Jessica wants JC fic and my masochistic tendencies kicked in to produce this monstrosity.

* * *

Calleigh Duquesne was curled up on her couch, an afghan draped over her legs as she fought the onset of sleep. It was becoming a trend and an unhealthy one at that, but she managed to get by with what little rest she did get. There were documents and reports in neat stacks across the coffee table, but she would need another cup of coffee before she was willing to make any attempts to tackle those. Her coffee maker, however, didn't seem to sense her urgency. Without the caffeine in her bloodstream, she began to drift off.

The knock at her door at half-past midnight roused her from her state of semi-consciousness. She couldn't imagine who would be at her door at this hour, though she had an inkling she wouldn't like it. Just a gut feeling, but she had a pretty efficient one of those. She rose, pushing the hand-woven blanket aside and slipping into a modest robe she had lying around. She made her way to the door, her movements sluggish, and she heard another knock, more tentative this time. Raising herself slightly, she took a peek through the peephole and had to check twice to ensure her sleep-deprived brain wasn't playing tricks on her. She rubbed her eyes a few times, but no, it was him.

Jake Berkeley stood at the other side, looking tousled and slightly out of place. Why he was there, she didn't know; how he even knew her address, anybody's guess, but she wasn't ready to see him there, wasn't ready for whatever confrontation she knew would ensue. Forty-eight hours ago, as far as she was concerned, he was dead, shot in the line of duty for all she cared. In the beginning, convincing herself of his death had merely been a way to cope with his choices, but eventually, she'd grown attached to the idea that she'd never have to face that aspect of her past.

But it wouldn't be that easy, she'd discovered when her eyes had locked with his for the first time since what seemed like a lifetime ago. When she'd thrown him to the ground and had cuffed him. A victory then, but a defeat in the bigger picture, as she quickly realized she would be expected to speak to him (difficult), to be around him (impossible), and though she'd put on a convincing façade, she couldn't help but wonder if he could still read her now as easily as he could then. The task of coexistence suddenly seemed tedious.

She combed her fingers through her hair and was deliberately slow with her lock, giving herself time to collect an appropriate amount of calm. She pulled the door slightly ajar, cautious in her movements, careful. A strange familiarity washed over her when she saw him there, and she felt the pang of lost love against her chest. Maybe, just maybe, the elements of loss and love were separate entities.

"Jake," she acknowledged with a short nod, wishing to reveal nothing. She found she had to fight her body's instinctive reaction, one that assaulted her senses with recollections she had spent too many years suppressing and could no longer fully recall. Just details, snapshots yellowed with age, frayed images that carried fragments of intensity, emotion. She felt them, bits and pieces of a rollercoaster relationship packaged neatly in convenient blocks in the far reaches of her memory. Temporary access granted, though she wanted nothing to do with them.

"You gonna let me in?" he asked rather hoarsely, making a small motion with his hand that gestured nothing and everything yet felt so familiar to her.

She stood her ground, fist tightening against the edge of the door. "What are you doing here, Jake?"

He sighed and took a step closer, and though her demeanor extended no invitation, he tried again. "Can I come in?"

She clenched her jaw, squared her shoulders. "Not until you—"

"To talk?" he interrupted, making another insignificant gesture. "Just wanna talk."

She watched him for a moment, and he looked tired, messy, like he'd attempted sleep and had somehow stumbled his way to her front door at an inappropriate hour. She knew she should tell him to go home and firmly close the door, but she couldn't find the energy to do even that. Seeing him there had been a surprise, and while she'd fight tooth and nail against the idea that he was tolerated here, even welcome, somewhere beyond the avoidance and austerity, she craved the normalcy of conversation, searched for the closure she'd been robbed of nearly a decade ago. Finally, she relented, pushing the door open a few more inches and stepping aside, as much of an invitation as any she was ready to offer.

"Do you know what time it is?" she asked dryly as he passed her, and she caught a hint of his aftershave. It was different than she remembered, tangier.

"Yeah, sorry," he apologized as he kicked off his shoes. "Still running on ATF time."

She closed the door and chuckled mirthlessly. "That's considerate of you, then," she couldn't help but retort.

He turned to face her, resignation trickled across his tired features. "I—It didn't end right with us," he declared unequivocally, apparently needing no entryway to dive nose-first into the issue.

She winced internally, knowing it was the topic he'd broach and feeling conflicted about the timing, the location, the very essences that made her who she was and him who she remembered him to be. "That's why you came here?" she asked, hoping the feigned incredulousness in her voice would throw him off.

He inhaled and held it. "Yeah, I—"

"At nearly one in the morning," she interrupted pointedly.

He sighed and ran his hand across his face, trying unsuccessfully to rub to weariness from his eyes. "I couldn't wait," he mumbled.

"Neither could I," she replied quietly, the distinct meaning of her words ringing loudly in the dense air between them.

His eyes pierced hers until she looked away. He swallowed. "I didn't… expect you to," he offered inelegantly.

She nodded and began walking away; he took a deep breath and followed.

"You want a drink or something?" she asked over her shoulder, suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed. She wasn't dressed inappropriately in any capacity, but knowing that his eyes were there, tracing her curves as she walked away, it both thrilled and repulsed her. To her, neither was an acceptable response given their situation and the time apart. She knew she shouldn't have let him into the intimacy of her home, especially so late and with her mind running on sheer residual adrenaline, but she hadn't been able to see him away – abandonment issues, she figured, ran deep.

"No," he replied, taking careful steps deeper into her apartment. He watched as she disappeared into what he could tell to be the kitchen and reemerged moments later with a mug carrying the distinct aroma of coffee. Colombian roast, if he were a betting man, because that'd always been her favorite. It eventually became his favorite, too, though he'd only ever agreed to taste it one way. At that thought, he instinctively licked his lips and couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment when he tasted nothing.

If she caught his movement, she didn't show it. She seemed to hesitate a moment, then approached him and handed him the mug unceremoniously.

He cradled it between his palms, letting the aroma waft to his nostrils, and he grinned in amusement. "Thought I said I didn't want a drink?" he teased, tempting fate with a hint of playfulness.

The corners of her lips twitched, but he was unsuccessful at coaxing a smile from her. "Trust me, Jake, you look like could use the coffee."

"Oh, now that was low, Calleigh," he replied with mock hurt. He took a sip of coffee anyway; it was just as he predicted: Colombian blend, and he couldn't help but think that drinking it from a cup waned in comparison to what he remembered.

She made her way back to her couch and picked up the crumpled blanket. She had to bite back a sudden, compulsive need to apologize for the mess and her attire, but she knew that she had nothing to be sorry for. She began meticulously folding the blanket, and from the corner of her eye, she watched him shuffle uncomfortably as he took a few more sips of coffee and slowly edged his way to the couch.

"Why have you got coffee brewing at this hour, anyway?"

She laid the now-folded blanket neatly over one of the armrests and sat down. "Had some paperwork to finish," she replied dismissively, motioning toward the piles of documents on her coffee table.

That registered a tiny blip on his bullshit meter, but he didn't push it, instead choosing to quietly take a seat next to her. He took note of the way her body tensed when his weight dipped the couch, then slowly eased back to a ambivalent state. He used the silence as a moment to look around. The décor, he noticed, brandished an air he could recall from their academy days. He found he missed it immensely; he missed _her_ even more, and what killed him was the knowledge that she wouldn't believe him even if he admitted that to her.

"I know you deserved better than what I gave you," he said suddenly.

She inhaled sharply. "We don't have to have this conversation."

He turned his head to glance at her. "We do if we wanna move past it."

"That was ten years ago," she breathed, muscles stiffening again. "I'm about a hundred miles past it."

"Are you?" He brought the mug to his lips and tilted, then leaned forward and was about to place it on the coffee table when he stopped in midair. "You got a coaster or something?"

"You hated those things," she pointed out.

"Yeah," he chuckled, "I still do."

She shook her head and smiled slightly. "Go ahead and put the mug down, Jake."

He nodded and placed the still-warm mug down on the coffee table. He waited a moment, listened to the serene resonance of her breathing and craved days when he fell asleep and woke up to the same mesmerizing sounds. Woke up to her smile, to her kisses raining down against his chest. He couldn't figure out why he'd given that all up to chase the thrills of a childish dream that he quickly learned was nothing more than a glorified nightmare. But as it turned out, the realization hadn't come quickly enough, especially as he watched her change from hopeful to desperate, and when he'd left for the last time, he hadn't realized then what he'd lost, how it would change everything.

"I'd give anything for a second chance," he reflected out loud, vigilantly gauging her reaction.

Her eyes shot up. "How do you expect me to believe that? After all these—" She cut herself off, sensing old wounds reopening. She exhaled silently. "We can't do this again," she added firmly. "Make this mistake."

"Well, it won't be a mistake this time," he assured her, sounding more confident than he knew he probably had the right to be. But he knew it wasn't an issue he could afford to skip around. He felt the need to fuel his words with the conviction that every inch of her body seemed to be fighting. He knew she had a right to be defensive, shielded, especially given their history, but this wasn't how he remembered her. She had been freer, somehow; happier, perhaps; radiating a decidedly different warmth and wearing softer features across her face. He couldn't help but wonder just how much of her he'd taken away with him so many weeks, months, years ago.

He just wanted to give it all back, to see the rare glint of innocence in her eyes, the one he knew she reserved for him. Only him, and he couldn't even begin to describe how much it clawed away at him, the very notion that in a life of disappointment and broken promises, he'd stripped her of her last strand of normalcy, her last attempt at something ordinary but beautiful. She'd believed in them – too naively, as he'd point out – and he'd shattered her faith, betrayed her trust, and in that way, he knew the damage was irreparable. He'd become another addition to the long list of people who'd failed her. He'd never forgive himself for that.

"No, Jake, it'll be the same and you know that," she replied, her tone even, excessively even, and he recognized the calm before the storm. "You shouldn't have come here tonight," she continued, her words marked with sharp brusqueness. "I don't know what you expected to get, but I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."

"Calleigh—"

"No," she repeated loudly, shaking her head. She saw the flicker of optimism fade in his eyes and her voice softened. "We're not who we used to be, Jake," she said hesitantly, eyes downcast. It felt too real, suddenly, too raw, and she'd never imagined his proximity could still affect her in this way.

He shrugged. "I know that."

"So why are you here?" she asked, tasting the anxiety at the back of her throat, knowing she was on the verge of something she did not want him to witness.

"To see you, Calleigh," he supplied uselessly, his voice tapering off. He chuckled lightly. "What's it look like?"

"I think you're here because of your guilt," she accused boldly.

He arched an eyebrow. "Is this how it's going to be?" He waited a moment for the response that never came, then frowned. "They offered me a job with homicide."

She chuckled bitterly. "You took it?"

"Not yet," he replied, shaking his head. "We'd be working together and—"

"And what? You wanted to know if I'd _date_ you again?" she demanded in disbelief, her voice rising. She stood up and turned her back to him, enraged. "Like hell, Jake," she muttered angrily, fighting the emotions he kept evoking with his words, his actions.

He recoiled, uncharacteristic of him, because as much as he'd prepared himself for her lashes, they still stung. He was slow to rise, making dictated calculations in his head. Ratios and percentages, but none of them seemed to offer the solace of an absolute answer. For now, he'd have to learn to settle with a wide margin of error wherever the two of them were concerned.

He stood behind her, his arms aching to grasp her roughly and just hold her until everything was okay again, until they were back to late nights and early mornings, uninhibited laughter, whisper-soft kisses, words they'd only ever dared speak to each other. But he'd seen too much and knew that the world didn't operate this way, that romantic notions were merely nonsense for the gullible. Still, the possibility drove him crazy, and he didn't know how he'd do it, but he'd convince her he was serious this time. He just hoped he wasn't too late. Before he could say anything, however, she spun around.

"Let me make something very clear," she ground through her teeth, still seething. She took a step forward to punctuate her point. "You don't get a say in this anymore. You lost that chance when you left." And there, she felt the resounding heartache that accompanied the memory.

He felt it, too, deep. "I can't tell you how much I regret that, Calleigh," he mumbled, suddenly getting distracted by how close she was standing, how easy it'd be to forget all the reasons why he shouldn't lean in and thoroughly taste her. But he knew better now, understood how to exercise restraint, patience.

"Funny how hindsight works," she retorted, forcing a sarcastic smile that she knew didn't suit her. "You chose the job over me," she emphasized, her own words puncturing holes in her defenses. She shook her head. "I don't think I can ever forgive you for that," she finished quietly, eyes searching for an escape.

"I was young and stupid," he offered, knowing it was an inadequate excuse.

"You're still one of those for showing up uninvited at my door in the middle of the night," she replied, traces of irritation and pain still evident in her voice.

"I couldn't stay away," he murmured, his eyes silently apologizing for everything he'd put her through.

Her emotions were running on high, and she knew she needed to get him out of there before this ticking bomb finally exploded; she knew it was close. But there was familiarity in his features, the same depth in his eyes, and she hated herself for feeling drawn, for responding when she felt his breath hot on her forehead, for being unable to fight this _thing_ inside her that she realized would never die, even with time and distance and a lifetime of meaningless promises.

"Jake…"

It came out sounding more like a plea than a protest, which was all the encouragement he needed to lean in and press his lips against hers. He couldn't immediately tell if he'd misread her (rare, but happened), or if he'd made a mistake (happened, though not as rare), but to his relief, he felt her hands tentatively snake around his waist as she let out the most glorious sigh he'd heard in years. Ten years.

Her heart pounded, every nerve ending tuned in to his movements, and until that moment, she didn't truly appreciate how much she needed this, needed _him_. She hadn't even realized it, but she'd carried her affection for him with her everywhere she went, never could let go of what they'd shared, and there, they had something in common.

She was surprised by how gentle he was, how willing he was to let her dictate a pace she was comfortable with. It spoke to her of his willingness to change, of his newfound selflessness, and she could almost hear him: _This time it's about you, beautiful_. Her tongue glistened against his lower lip, and she discovered that he tasted the same; she couldn't believe that after all these years, he still tasted like this, an incredible mixture of mint and cocoa and the self-assertiveness she fell in love with years and years ago.

She felt his hand move up to cup her cheek. His fingertips were rougher than those she'd had etched in her memory, a harsh reminder of how much time had passed, how much change they'd both endured: what he'd seen in his years undercover (the guns, the drugs, the women), and what she _hadn't_ seen in those same years (him). It came rushing back to her when his fingers – rougher but blazing the same fire – trailed paths along her jaw line and caused her to shiver.

She broke away, needing to breathe, and his lips traced down to her neck. She held back a moan and tilted her head to give him the access he craved.

"I couldn't let go," he murmured against her skin. "I never—"

"Jake…" She let out a frustrated sigh, then a soft one when she felt his lips brushing against her pulse point. "We can't do this again," she whispered unconvincingly.

He pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. "Thinking about you kept me alive out there, Calleigh."

"Don't say that," she mumbled, feeling the unfamiliar sting of tears. "Don't—" She breathed out, a muffled sob escaping her throat. She recovered quickly, palms pressing flat against his chest. "You can't just waltz into my life again like the first time didn't happen."

He lifted his head up and searched for her eyes but couldn't find them behind the veil of hair that had cascaded over her face. He brushed a few strands away, his knuckles lingering against her cheek.

"I'm so sorry I hurt you," he whispered, his hand working his way to her chin and tilting it up gently.

She let out a shaky sigh. "Second chances are for people who are naïve enough to fall for lies twice."

He shook his head. "Second chances," he countered softly, "are for people who know they shouldn't have fucked up the first one."

She swallowed, eyes closing as she leaned into him. "Who's to say they won't do it again?"

His arms tightened around her. "Me."

"Jake," she protested with a short laugh.

"I won't," he promised, meaning it with everything he had.

She had been right about one thing; they weren't who they used to be, but in the proper perspective, that was nothing short of a blessing, because they knew better than to make the same mistakes that had led to a tumultuous end the first time around. They'd aged, matured, seen and learned things from the greatest educator of all: time.

The margin of error on this one was looking extraordinarily slim.


End file.
